Remarkably Bright Creatures(87)

“Oh, give me a break.” Cameron stomps over to the kitchen window, nearly tripping over one of the kitchen chairs on his way. “What exactly are the qualifications to work at Shop-Way, anyway? Running your mouth all the time?” He turns back and glares at Ethan.

Ethan’s usual reddish cheeks grow even redder.

Cameron knows he should stop, but he keeps digging. “Airing the whole town’s dirty laundry?” Dig, dig. “Talking shit about people’s private lives?” Dig, dig, dig. “Spreading rumors about my mom?”

“I was trying to find her.” Ethan’s voice is quiet but firm. “I was trying to help.”

“I never asked for your help.”

“I wasn’t doing it for you.”

Cameron is about to fire back when Ethan’s words catch up with him.

“I was doing it for her,” Ethan continues. “For Tova. To help bring her . . . closure.”

From the basement, the dryer buzzes, the sound muffled through the kitchen floor. Cycle complete.

“Whatever,” Cameron mutters, stalking off toward his camper. He’ll come back later for the laundry.

IT’S A CRAPPY, fitful nap, but it’s better than nothing. Aunt Jeanne always said, when shit starts to go sideways first thing in the morning, go back to bed and start over.

Sounds about right for today.

But at some point, Cameron must’ve fallen into a deep sleep, because it’s no longer morning when he wakes to incessant buzzing. Afternoon light pours through the camper’s windows, and he squints as he ruffles through his bedding in search of his phone.

Shit. Avery. The paddle date. Is it past four? The camper is hot and stuffy inside, the way it always is when it’s been baking in the sun all day. Where the hell is his phone? What happened to the alarm he set?

Finally, he finds it on the floor, under a dirty sock that must’ve escaped this morning’s laundry roundup. He’s about to answer, a string of apologies ready to stream from his sleep-slick tongue, when he realizes it’s only three. Then he registers the number. A Seattle area code, but it’s not Avery.

“Hello?”

A woman’s voice replies, “Mr. Cassmore?”

“Uh, yeah? I mean, yes, that’s me.”

“Excellent. I’m glad I reached you. This is Michelle Yates with Brinks Development.”

Cameron sits straight up.

“I know you’ve contacted us several times trying to secure an appointment, and I apologize for the delay. Mr. Brinks has been out of town. But he has returned, and as it happens, he has an opening in his schedule later today. I know it’s last-minute, but would you be available to meet then?”

“Meet? With . . . him? Today?”

“This is Cameron Cassmore the developer, correct?” A note of doubt creeps into Michelle’s voice.

Okay, so that was a tiny fib.

Michelle goes on, “You left several messages a couple of weeks ago, looking to meet with Mr. Brinks about a new opportunity?”

All right, maybe it was an actual fabrication.

Cameron clears his throat. “Oh. Yeah, definitely. That’s me.” He can’t believe that story he spun on those voice mails worked. It actually worked. All these weeks of showing up at closed offices and empty bluffs, and it was this that worked. A big, bold lie. Ignoring the twinge of guilt that nags at him, he says, “Yes, I can be there. What time?”

Michelle tells him to be there at six o’clock, and gives him a Seattle address, which he scrawls on the back of a gas station receipt. “You’ll want to take the elevator all the way down to the basement,” she adds, which strikes Cameron as odd. A basement office?

As soon as he hangs up with Michelle, Cameron calls Terry, who answers on the fourth ring, sounding distracted.

“I hate to ask,” Cameron says, “but would it be a problem if took this afternoon off? I could still be there to clean tonight. I just have a . . . thing.” He inhales, then gives Terry the details about the situation with Simon Brinks in what he hopes is a professional manner.

“Sure, Cameron.” Terry still sounds preoccupied. Had he heard a word of what Cameron said?

“Thanks, sir. And, um . . . maybe soon, could we talk about hiring me on permanently for the cleaning part? You know, like . . . not temporary?”

“Sure, sure.” A flurry of muffled voices on the line. “Hey, kiddo, I’ve got to run. No worries about tonight. Take your time, okay?”

“Okay.”

He ends the call, shrugging off Terry’s weirdness. Probably just caught him at a busy time. Then he opens his map app and enters the Seattle address Michelle gave him. It’s a two-hour drive. Which means that at four, he needs to be on the road. Not on a paddleboard.

Avery will understand. He’ll stop by the shop on his way out of town and tell her in person.

SHORTLY BEFORE FOUR, he pushes open the door of the Sowell Bay Paddle Shop.

A figure pops up from behind a rack of wet suits in the far corner of the store. To Cameron’s surprise, it’s not Avery.

It’s her son, Marco.

The kid gives him a stiff nod, then ducks back down behind the rack without a word.

“Um, hey,” Cameron says. “Your mom here?”

“She went on some errand,” Marco is kneeling on the polished wood floor next to an open box, holding some black plastic thing with a trigger and a thin strip of waxy-looking paper trailing from its snout. A pricing gun.